


Four Characters In Search Of A Gig

by Wasuremono



Category: They Might Be Giants - The Mesopotamians (Song)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/pseuds/Wasuremono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a band made up of four ancient kings plays a show in what may very well be the afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Characters In Search Of A Gig

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rho/gifts).



> This is just a bit of fun written as a Yuletide treat. I love both the song and the prompt, so I figured I'd take a shot at it; I hope it manages an appropriate blend of humor and substance.

Sometimes Sargon wonders if he's really the leader of the Mesopotamians.

He should be; after all, forming the band was his idea. (Most good ideas, in Sargon's experience, are his ideas.) Sargon can't count how many hours he spent teaching Gilgamesh the guitar. (Hammurabi was a much quicker study, but he was also learning the bass, which Sargon is pretty sure the goat could play in a pinch.) He was even the one who scrounged up the money for the van and the goat. (Goats are good luck.) And yet here he is again, riding in the back of the van with the equipment and the goat, as Hammurabi drives them nowhere in particular.

No, wait -- the gig's tonight, isn't it? For the first time in way too long, they've actually landed a gig; he's pretty sure it's some dive bar in the scribes' district, but at this point, they're just lucky to be playing a show. Some part of Sargon hopes that this is the show that somebody will notice, somebody important enough to get their career started at last.

The larger part of Sargon just hopes there'll be something fermented to drink and a few interesting women in the audience. That doesn't seem too much to hope for, at least.

Now that he's actually waiting for something, the drive's even more boring than usual; Sargon glances out the window, but he sees nothing but the same cityscape, caught in its eternal early evening. Nothing to see out there, he decides, not for the first time. Sargon closes his eyes, lying back with his head resting on what's left of the rug, and focuses on the gentle feeling of motion beneath him. It reminds him of a memory he can't quite place -- the sensation of bobbing in the water, woven reeds around him, safe.

Screw the leader thing. Hammurabi'll get them to the gig.

* * *

Sometimes Hammurabi really hates driving.

The rumors about the crash were overstated, but there was a grain of truth there; he's plowed the van into ditches and curbs more than once. He's still the best driver of the band, but that isn't saying a whole lot. Thankfully, the city and the surrounding deserts have pretty simple roads, and by now he's driven them enough that there's nothing much capable of surprising him.

Tonight, though, they're going somewhere different, and he's grateful to have a co-pilot for once. Ashurbanipal knows the way to the scribes' district, and he's a surprisingly decent navigator. (Sargon never shuts up when he's in the navigator's seat. Gilgamesh never pays attention.) As Hammurabi's thinking about it, Ashurbanipal pipes up, speaking his first words in maybe ten minutes. "Turn left at the signal and slow down a little. I'll be looking for the turn."

"Understood," says Hammurabi, slowing obediently at the sight of the yellow light. He flips his turn signal on, and once he's got his green arrow, he goes. (Being meticulous helps keep his mind on the task.) The side street is narrow and twisty, not the kind of thing he'd have built at all, but Hammurabi reminds himself that it's been a long time since his public-works days. Right now, all he's got to do is keep the van negotiating the turns.

"Okay, turn in here and pull around," says Ashurbanipal at last. "The bartender says they have a loading dock in back."

"For the gear? Good." Hammurabi steers carefully through the alley; as promised, there's a dingy-looking loading dock behind it, just a little bigger than the van. Gingerly, he backs in, and somehow he manages not to hit concrete.

This could be a good night.

* * *

Sometimes Ashurbanipal really hates being the drummer.

He's heard every stupid-drummer joke in the world, most of them from Sargon, and he's officially sick of it. Not only did he score them a gig, but he's the one who got them to it; nobody else in the band can even read. And everyone told him his scribe's education wouldn't be worth anything after he ended up in line to inherit. Who's laughing now?

As usual (well, usual when they have a gig, which is to say not very usual at all), Ashurbanipal leads the way through the bar's cramped backstage, even though he's pretty sure even Gilgamesh would have gotten the idea with the arrows. The stage itself isn't exactly huge either, but it'll be big enough for his kit and the amps, and the house staff have two mics ready to go. With theirs in the van, that means it's a three-mic gig, which means the frontmen won't be jostling for harmony for once. That's nice.

Ashurbanipal leaves his bandmates to fiddle with the mics and amps and starts in on arranging the drum kit. Everyone thinks it's just a bunch of stuff to bang on, but he knows from experience that the slightest mistake in arrangement of the kit can cause disaster. Sloppiness makes drums as unstable as empires, and he doesn't want anything to disrupt tonight's show. Even if money, alcohol, and reputation weren't riding on this, catharsis definitely is.

Once the kit is in place and perfect, Ashurbanipal takes a seat and relaxes. They're within minutes of starting now (Hammurabi's not exactly a fast driver), and he's pretty much ready. Soon, it'll be time to hit things.

* * *

Sometimes Gilgamesh wonders if they really left the Underworld.

If the others feel it too, they haven't let on, but death left more of a mark on Gilgamesh, and he feels something deeply wrong with the world. The sun's always high and intolerable in the desert, but the mad city's always in twilight; no part of the world ever seems comfortable. Sometimes, on his worst days, Gilgamesh is sure he's trapped.

Gigs help. As he tunes his guitar, Gilgamesh is silently grateful for the crowd in front of him, sparse and sullen as it is. They're still definitely humans out there, and they don't wear the too-familiar faces of his bandmates, his successors. They're drinking. They're talking. They're alive, or at least they look that way.

Sometimes thinking about life is painful, but sometimes, like tonight, it's nice just to see that someone still enjoys it.

To Gilgamesh's surprise, his guitar hasn't gone out of tune since the morning, and he's officially ready to go. He steps back, letting Sargon have the microphones to himself, and watches his brash young bandleader stand up and start his pre-show patter. On his better days, Sargon reminds him just a bit of Enkidu.

"Thank you, thank you," Sargon says, gushing at even the scattered applause they receive. "We'd like to start with a little track our bassist wrote. It's called 'Marduk Walks The Earth.' One, two, three, four!"

On cue, Ashurbanipal snaps into the rhythm line, and Gilgamesh joins in reflexively. Soon Hammurabi's singing, with Sargon taking harmony, and the stage is a wall of noise: big, crashing, mad sounds that swallow Gilgamesh whole. His bones clatter against each other. (Does that add a layer to the percussion, he wonders?) It's beautiful.

Gilgamesh isn't wondering how the audience feels about it. He isn't thinking about the audience at all. He's just thinking about that noise, about his hands moving in their practiced course up and down the guitar neck, about the reverberation in his hollow skull.

That's why he's with the band. That's why he followed them to the city. When they're playing, he feels quite nearly alive again.


End file.
